THERE IS ROOM for you. You are alone with your few sheaves of rice. My boat is crowded, it is heavily laden, but how can I turn you away? your young body is slim and swaying; there is a twinkling smile in the edge of your eyes, and your robe is coloured like the rain-cloud.
The travellers will land for different roads and homes. You will sit for a while on the prow of my boat, and at the journey's end none will keep you back.
Where do you go, and to what home, to garner your sheaves? I will not question you, but when I fold my sails and moor my boat, I shall sit and wonder in the evening,-Where do you go, and to what home, to garner your sheaves?

LET THE EARTH and the water, the air and the fruits of my country
be sweet, my God.
Let the homes and marts, the forests and fields of my country be
full, my God
Let the promises and hopes, the deeds and words of my country be
true, my God.
Let the lives and hearts of the sons and daughters of my country
be one, my God.

YOUR VOICE, free bird, reaches my sleeping nest,
and my drowsy wings dream
of a voyage to the light
above the clouds.